


The longest shadows ever cast

by bookmarksorganization, semperfiona_podfic (semperfiona)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol, Aziraphale and Crowley will be fine, BAMF Aziraphale, Bad Jokes, Banter, Bastard!Aziraphale, Canon-Typical Drinking, Crowley plays guitar, Dancing, Denial, Discussion of suicidal ideation, Film Noir, First Kiss, Gun Violence, Intrigue, Love Confessions, Mutual Pining, Organized Crime, Other, Pretentious Literary References, Smoking, Supporting Character Death, The Pirates of Penzance needed more stunt work, Time period-relevant sexism, except Obregon, fake marriage for like two seconds, fancy clothes, female-presenting Crowley, implied suicide of a character, inspired by the film Gilda, off-screen suicide of a minor character, projecting via Virgil, something vaguely adjacent to a love triangle but it’s just flirting, talking about their feelings, the characters from Gilda have been somewhat-changed, they have one brain cell between them, together they are worse, you definitely don't need to have seen Gilda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:35:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25308355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookmarksorganization/pseuds/bookmarksorganization, https://archiveofourown.org/users/semperfiona/pseuds/semperfiona_podfic
Summary: For almost five years, Aziraphale has largely been avoiding Crowley—unprepared to deal with the reality of his feelings after his realization in 1941. Their paths cross in Buenos Aires, when they stumble into working the same assignment for the first time in centuries: influencing the enigmatic manager of an illegal high-stakes casino.Faced with glamour, luxury, danger, and each other, Aziraphale and Crowley find themselves dancing closer to what separates them than ever before.This story also exists in the form of anincredible podfic, created bysemperfiona. Written and read for the Do It With Style Good Omens Mini Bang 2020.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 58
Collections: Good Omens Mini Bang





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Story title is from “Summer Skin” by Death Cab for Cutie. It’s a vibe.
> 
> This is based heavily on the 1946 film Gilda, which I promise you don’t need to have seen. Some of the plot differs very significantly from the movie (which, like many films from the 1940s, has its fair share of problematic bits) but some of the scenes/dialogue are also taken pretty directly. It’s film noir, so feel free to imagine two supernatural entities pining across a dance floor in shimmering black and white. 
> 
> Huge thanks to [under_a_linden_tree](https://archiveofourown.org/users/under_a_linden_tree/pseuds/under_a_linden_tree) and [Tarek_giverofcookies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarek_giverofcookies) for their immense help as betas. They are also both participating in this Mini Bang! Check out their gorgeous writing and art. <3

* * *

**Buenos Aires, Argentina: July 19, 1945**

* * *

Neither of the two men standing in front of Aziraphale were Alan Mundson, but they certainly worked for him.

“Where is he?” Aziraphale asked.

“Don’t worry, bub. He’ll be here.”

They both wore the same kind of suit. Dark in color, the fit not quite right. The sort of suit you put on every day and hid things inside. 

“I don’t suppose I can convince you that we can put this whole matter behind us and I’ll be on my way?” said Aziraphale.

“You can’t talk your way out of this, bub. You’re in trouble.”

Aziraphale began to bring his hands together—to clasp them, and the men moved. The younger of the two grabbed Aziraphale by his upper arms. He had a moment to steel himself as the other man drew his fist back.

The blow landed on his jaw. Static cut across his vision. His corporation reeled. Aziraphale closed his eyes—calmed his sympathetic nervous system’s attempts to further discharge itself. 

Perhaps they’d thought he was going for a weapon, or maybe they’d just wanted to take a more hands-on approach to illustrating what ‘trouble’ meant.

He opened his eyes.

A man was standing at the far end of the room. 

Aziraphale thought of Lord Alfred Douglas. He had passed away a few months prior—perhaps that was why Aziraphale’s thoughts formed the connection so quickly. They could have been brothers—age difference aside. Because Alan Mundson, and it was certainly Alan Mundson, appeared to be in his late-forties—or early-fifties at the latest. He and Douglas shared the same fine cheekbones, the blonde hair, the arched brows and heavily lidded eyes. 

He wore a very expensive suit and carried a cane. In a calm tone, he said, “Alright, Casey. Werther.”

Aziraphale wiggled a little, impeded by Casey-or-Werther’s grip on his arms. “I wouldn’t have expected the manager of a casino to cut such a fine figure.”

“A fitting choice of words,” Mundson said, raising his cane to point at Aziraphale. A blade gleamed at the end, extended by some hidden mechanism. “My name is Alan Mundson.”

He walked over to where Aziraphale and his men stood. He didn’t lower his weapon.

“Mine is Aeneas Farrell,” Aziraphale said. 

“And I’m not the manager, I own the joint. And I don’t like to be cheated.”

Aziraphale _had_ been cheating, but only because it was the easiest way to get noticed. It was just a game, hardly anything to worry over.

“I’m sure we can—”

“Nobody wins that much money at 21 honestly.”

“Maybe I had a lucky streak,” Aziraphale posited, guiltless.

Mundson’s eyes narrowed. “A very deft way of cutting cards,” he said, voice dry.

Aziraphale smiled. “Took me years to learn.”

Mundson got very close, close enough that Aziraphale could see himself reflected in the blade pointed at him. But then, Mundson lowered the cane and clicked it closed on the toe of his boot.

“Of course, you ought to be in jail,” he said. “But, I’m not particularly interested in interacting with our local forces, so instead I’ll be forgiving. You’ll get out of here, and don’t come back.”

He sat against his desk. Presumably his desk. It made him shorter than Aziraphale, and it showed confidence in his men’s abilities. Their faces were maybe a meter apart.

Aziraphale aimed for a fond expression, and decided to gamble again. “Now, you know you’re being very stupid,” he said, kindly.

Mundson softened—the corners of his mouth turned up ever so slightly. “Probably,” he said, meeting Aziraphale’s eyes.

Aziraphale held the eye contact, and managed to lean forward slightly. “You’d simply had me gambling on the wrong side. Wouldn’t it be nicer if I was on your side?”

Mundson drew back a bit. “I don’t like my people to cheat.”

That was good. Something to work with. Later. 

“I may cheat with my own money? But, with yours?” Aziraphale pursed his lips. “I wouldn’t have to. Think it over.”

There were several seconds of silence, heavy with potential.

“You know,” Mundson began, and Aziraphale could tell he’d managed to connect. “I think I will. How much time do you give me?”

“Oh, there’s no worry. You can take a minute or two,” Aziraphale said, the picture of graciousness while restrained.

And now for the part he felt preemptively guilty over. But, he’d thought this through, and it was the most expedient plan. 

“Excuse me, while you’re making up your mind,” Aziraphale said politely, and he drove the back of his head hard into the face of the man holding him. 

The grip on his arms went slack. 

Aziraphale twisted free. The other man was advancing.

“You really shouldn’t hit a man when he has his hands behind his back,” he said evenly, and moved into the swing of the hook thrown as he’d spoken. He caught the fist, and struck out with his free hand, connecting with his assailant’s temple. The man went down. 

Aziraphale turned back to the remaining, younger man. He’d straightened and was hovering—like he was waiting for his moment to rush forward. His nose was already very bruised. Aziraphale hoped it hadn’t been broken.

He looked at Mundson, who’d raised his cane up again, though the blade remained out of sight. “I think I’ve made my point well enough?”

“Yes,” Mundson said, and he almost looked impressed. His face wasn’t an expressive one. “Casey, stand down.”

Casey did, and hurried to where Werther lay unconscious on the floor.

“I do like your cane,” Aziraphale said.

Mundson lowered it back to the floor. “It’s the most faithful and obedient friend. It is silent when I wish to be silent. It talks when I wish to talk.”

“Well,” Aziraphale said. “Here’s a way for you to have two friends. You have no idea how faithful and obedient I can be. For a nice salary.”

Mundson watched Casey bent over Werther, who was beginning to come around. “This I must be sure of,” he said. “That there is no woman anywhere.”

Whatever Aziraphale had expected Mundson to say, that wasn’t it. “Oh, no,” he said. “There’s no woman anywhere.”

“Gambling and women do not mix.”

“Mmm, quite.” 

Mundson fixed him with a look. He was quiet again, for a time. Then, “There was one, once."

Aziraphale hesitated. He wondered what had led Mundson to such a conclusion, and weighed his possible replies.

“Consider this, Mr. Mundson. In the scope of our acquaintance, you could... consider me as having been born today, when I walked into your casino. That way, I’m no past and all future. And I think that’s rather wonderful.” He beamed.

* * *

On the second day of September, the war ended.

Over the past few months, Mundson had let Aziraphale ease himself right to the top. 

At first, he’d just watched the plays and the check-offs. But as he’d gained Mundson’s trust, he’d found himself appointed as the casino’s acting manager. It was a good position from which to show benevolence, to set an example, etc. He’d been instructed by Heaven to encourage Mundson towards a more honorable way of life and in turn right the paths of his patrons.

Mundson was promising. He had a real sense of fairness, and had been serious about his distaste for cheating. Employees were expected to conduct themselves with integrity, and their respect for the man was clearly a result of fair treatment and earned trust.

Not to discount Mundson’s clear standing as a dangerous individual—but Aziraphale hoped that he might appeal to Mundson’s better nature, and show him a more upstanding path for his intelligence and capabilities. 

He entered Mundson’s office, two drinks in-hand. 

Mundson stood at a window, staring through the blinds out at the cheering and singing throng beneath him. Switches had been flipped to pipe sound into the room from mics set into the tables below, and the secondhand sound of celebration filled the smaller space. Mundson’s office was elevated above the main floor. When Aziraphale would stop by, he’d often find the man positioned like this. The room was, functionally, a watchtower of sorts. 

Aziraphale joined him at the window. “Wonderful news,” he said, by way of greeting. “I thought we ought to celebrate, too.” He offered Mundson one of the glasses. 

Mundson looked at it. “Oh yes, of course,” he said, no enthusiasm present, and took it. 

“Well,” Aziraphale began, raising his own glass to toast. 

Mundson turned and cut the music—switched the blinds closed. He walked away, towards the middle of the room. His shadow moved across the wall, well—shadowing him.

“I have to take a trip, Aeneas. I may be gone for a while, and you’re in charge of the casino. You’ve been promoted.”

Aziraphale hesitated, decided to try for a joke. “Faithful service. Do I get a raise?”

“No. Fair enough?”

“Fair enough.”

“But, you do get five percent of the profits.”

“I’ll take seven and a half.”

Mundson laughed. “You’re sharp, Aeneas. Almost as sharp as my other little friend. But, not quite so obedient.” 

He was talking about that cane of his. It went with him everywhere—was currently set across his desk, and Aziraphale reached to pick it up.

“No?” Aziraphale asked, in mock offense. The weight of it felt familiar, comfortable.

“My other little friend would kill for me, Aeneas.”

“Well, I’ve been told that’s what friends are for.” He ran a thumb along the varnished wood, found the small metal trigger hidden along the side, and pulled it back. The blade slid out without a sound.

“To us, Aeneas. To the three of us.’

Aziraphale didn’t want weapons to feel like things he understood completely—didn’t like how every one fit into his hand like a thing returning to its rightful place. “To the three of us,” he said, putting it down and raising his glass.

* * *

And then it was a new year. 

Aziraphale had kept things running smoothly in Mundson’s stead. He’d even managed to shift focus ever-so-slightly from the gambling that took place in the establishment’s luxe backrooms towards the restaurant and nightclub that fronted the whole operation.

If the food was a bit more delicious, the entertainment more tasteful, and if profits had notably gone up—well, there _were_ other lucrative opportunities here worth exploring. And with Aziraphale’s attention, they flourished. 

Mundson would see, when he looked over the books upon his return.

One afternoon, Werther found Aziraphale in the restaurant’s kitchen, looking at the planned menu. Mundson had returned, and he wanted Aziraphale to meet him at his home.

Mundson lived about a mile west of his business, on a street filled with tall trees and huge houses—all set behind walls. Aziraphale had met him there a few times before, and he enjoyed the walk.

The air was crisp, and the sun was bright. He felt full of hope. It lightened his step. An angel’s happiness was contagious, and those he passed would find their worries lessened and their spirits lifted.

He had a key, and he let himself in.

“Alan?” Aziraphale called. He’d been experimenting with their being on a first-name basis, to better establish congeniality.

Alan’s butler, Pete, came to meet him. “Señor Mundson will be down in a moment, Señor Farrell.”

“Thank you. It’s great having him back, isn’t it Pete?” Aziraphale decided he’d make himself comfortable at Alan’s home bar, in the meantime.

“I hope it will be the same, Señor Farrell,” Pete said, as he walked away.

Alan’s bar was to the left of the entryway and outfitted handsomely. Aziraphale approached the counter. He deposited his hat and reached over to retrieve a glass and a bottle of rum.

“Aeneas, is that you?” Alan’s voice echoed from upstairs. 

Aziraphale set the drinkware down and walked back out. He stopped at the foot of the stairs. “Hello, Alan,” he said.

“Come on up here.”

Aziraphale did, and as he drew closer, he realized something had changed in his employer's typically stern demeanor. The man was beaming. It was almost eerie.

“Well, what’s got you so gloomy?” Aziraphale asked.

“I feel great, Aeneas.” He took his arm and Aziraphale tamped down the instinct to flinch. “I’ll show you why.” He began to lead Aziraphale towards some unfamiliar rooms. Most of his previous time in Alan’s home had been spent on the ground floor.

“Where’s the canary?” Aziraphale said, as a joke.

Alan stopped—looked at him more closely. “How did you know?”

“How did I know what?”

Alan’s smile widened. “So you don’t know,” he said. “Come.”

They stood in front of one of the many painted doors that lined the hallway. “This is where the canary is, Aeneas,” Alan said, and pushed it open.

From inside, came the sound of someone singing.

A memory of a window open, the sun low in the sky, painting the heavens in shades of orange, and pink, and gold. The smell of grass on the wind. The sound of a piano. Her hand, resting on an embroidered cloth. The dark lace of her sleeve…

“Quite a surprise to hear a woman singing in my house, ay, Aeneas?”

In what world, what future, would he not recognize her anywhere? 

He realized he had been quiet for too long—lost in his thoughts, in a time long past. “That’s quite… a surprise,” he managed.

They walked further in, through a small foyer of sorts and into a bedroom set back through a second set of doors. Alan stepped inside and Aziraphale lingered, still in the doorway.

Of course it was Crowley. 

She was bent over, fastening the strap of a golden heel. She’d told Aziraphale before that she preferred to dress with power ( _’Can’t be bothered with all the buttoning.’_ ) but, Aziraphale surmised, it would have been imprudent to risk a miracle when someone’s houseguest. Her hair was long again. It fell forward in spectacular waves in front of her face.

“Antonia, are you decent?” Alan asked. It was a pointless question. They were already in the room. 

“Me?” She flipped her hair back as she straightened, a glorious _woosh_ and bounce of motion. Her sunglasses were delicate and round. She was radiant, content.

Then she froze. Her smile… wilted.

She wasn’t happy to see him.

Crowley tugged the top of her diaphanous, pleated dress more firmly back onto a tanned shoulder. “Sure, I’m decent,” she said. Her voice was low and empty of amusement. She turned away for a moment, to retrieve a lit cigarette from a dish on a nearby table. 

“Antonia, this is Aeneas Farrell,” Alan said, as Crowley turned back.

They both just stood there.

“Aeneas, this is Antonia.”

“So, this is Aeneas.” Crowley drew out the _’So,’_ and the name Aziraphale had chosen. It was subtle, but it was mocking. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr. Farrell.” 

What was she doing here?

“Oh. Really?” Aziraphale said, knowing Crowley would catch the suspicion he let color his words. “Now I haven’t heard a word about you.”

Crowley pouted, tutted, “Why, Alan.”

“I wanted to keep it as a surprise,” Mundson said, from somewhere off to Aziraphale’s left.

Crowley cocked her head. “Was it a surprise, Mr. Farrell?”

A bell should have rung. There should have been some instinct of warning. But, there wasn’t. Aziraphale had walked right into it.

“It certainly was,” Mundson said. “You should have seen his face.”

“Did you tell him what I’m doing here, Alan?” 

Aziraphale watched the end of her cigarette resolve to ash.

“No, I wanted to save that as a surprise, too.”

“Well,” she took a drag, blew out a small cloud of smoke. “Hang on to your hat, Mr. Farrell.”

Aziraphale wasn’t wearing a hat. He’d left it downstairs. He remembered the feel of its wool, and the ribbon band beneath his fingers as he’d stood in the rubble of a church. 

“Antonia is my wife.”

Oh. 

Well, of course she was. Why wouldn’t she use a sham marriage to get in on… whatever had brought her to Argentina… Crowley couldn’t have expected surprise in reaction to that news. Beyond the shock of encountering each other on a different continent, it was hardly that far outside of her wheelhouse. Though it had been a long time since he’d seen Crowley do something like this for her work. She preferred to keep things less direct, less personal, or that’s what Aziraphale had thought.

“Mrs. Alan Mundson,” Crowley said brightly, showing her teeth.

“Congratulations,” Aziraphale said, with a small smile.

Her face tightened down in annoyance.

“Oh, you don’t congratulate the bride, Aeneas,” Mundson said. “You congratulate the husband.”

“Really?” Aziraphale asked, not looking away from Crowley. He had the particular sensation of staring down a viper in the grass—the feeling that if his attention strayed he’d find himself struck. “Well, what is a person supposed to say to the bride?”

“You wish her good luck,” Mundson said.

Crowley took another drag of her cigarette.

Aziraphale took a breath. “Good luck,” he said.

Crowley bounced a little, and her reply came with an insincere cheeriness. “Thanks, Mr. Farrell. My husband tells me you’re a great believer…” she trailed off. “In luck?”

“We make our own luck, Aeneas and I.”

“I’ll have to try that sometime. I’ll try it right now. Tell him to come to dinner with us tonight, Alan.”

Why was she asking for that? It couldn’t be anything good. Not with her clear unhappiness. Did she do it purely to annoy him? 

“Come along, Aeneas. We’ll let Antonia get dressed. Look your best, my beautiful.”

What a tedious way to bid farewell to a woman one supposedly loves.

“This will be the casino’s first glimpse of you,” Mundson continued. He leaned in to kiss Crowley. Aziraphale saw the edge of her sunglasses past the side of his face.

“I’ll look my very best, Alan,” she said as Mundson stepped back. “I want all of your employees to approve of me. Glad to have met you, Mr. Farrell.”

“His name is Aeneas, Antonia.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Aeneas is such a hard name to remember, and so easy to forget.” She screwed up her face in mock concentration and breathed in through her nose. “Aeneas. See you later, Mr. Farrell.”

“That’s right, Mrs. Mundson.” Aziraphale turned and walked off.

From behind him, Mundson said, “I’ll see Aeneas downstairs.”

Aziraphale heard the snap of fingers. 

“Angel, come on.”

He turned on his heel. Mundson stood frozen in the doorway.

“We need to talk,” Crowley called.

Aziraphale walked back up the stairs. He ducked past Mundson as he came back into the room. “Oh? You don’t want to keep up your whole…” He flapped a hand in annoyance. “Thing, you’re doing?”

Crowley gaped. “Thing?”

Aziraphale didn’t answer. She knew. There were suitcases against the wall—perfumes and lotions on the dresser. “Why are you in Argentina?”

“Why do you think? One of us could have avoided the trip. I’d ask why you didn’t tell me, but...” She fell silent, and finally looked down and away.

They’d seen each other a couple of times since 1941—short meetings initiated by Crowley and pertaining to The Arrangement. Aziraphale had been avoiding Crowley, it was true. He needed time. Time to figure things out. It had only been four years.

“Well…” He thought of trying to make some excuse, and decided to avoid the subject entirely. “Yes. I’m here for the same—well, probably opposite, reasons.”

Crowley didn’t respond. She was standing very still. She did that when she was a particular sort of unhappy—when she hadn’t figured out what to say or do next—and hadn’t chosen to barrel forward with something, anyway.

Was this his fault? Crowley hated inconvenience, it could simply be that causing her discontent. They’d gone long stretches of time without speaking before, centuries, even recently—though that had been born out of unhappy circumstances and… stubbornness. They were both so stubborn. If nothing else, he could have saved her a trip.

He tried to think of what to say. 

“I’m sorry for not checking in,” Aziraphale said, and picked up immediately on her resulting suspicion. He tried again. “I’m… glad… to see you,” he said, willing himself past his own mortification and pride. 

She seemed distracted. The silence ticked on for another unbearable heartbeat, and then she was shaking her head with a small smile that Aziraphale imagined didn’t reach her eyes. “It’s fine, angel. We’re both here. I guess.”

Aziraphale tried to think of a new topic. Hadn’t she said they needed to talk? Probably just about The Arrangement, which they’d done. Oh—“So I’m to have dinner with you and your new beau tonight? Why?’

At that, she relaxed. “ _My new beau,_ ” she mimicked. “Honestly? Because I knew you wouldn’t like it.” She ignored his eye roll. “I’m to _lead him into temptation_ for whatever extent and length of time I think I can content head office with. Was planning on cutting things pretty short, to be frank. I've a feeling.” 

“A feeling,” Aziraphale repeated. Crowley could read people and situations quite well. Quickly.

“A feeling that he doesn’t need any help from me. Nothing I’ve seen proof of, but I can sense it.”

“Ah.” Crowley was almost certainly right, and that would only make Aziraphale’s job harder. “We’ll have to figure out how to finesse this enough for us both.”

Crowley nodded. “You don’t want to just hand it off to me? I’m already here, the weather’s nice, I wouldn’t mind.”

It would be too complicated. The roles they’d already settled into were too different. A casino manager and a wife. Crowley had the right of things in that she was better positioned to multitask directions of influence but… no, they both needed to stay on. That was—it was a matter of practicality. 

He said as much to Crowley, and she nodded consideringly. “I suppose you’re right. Well,” she turned away. “I need to finish changing, and you need to get back downstairs. I’ll see you tonight, angel.”

“Yes, you will,” Aziraphale said. He left, ducking around Mundson and walking back down the stairs. He heard Crowley snap her fingers. He stopped and waited on Mundson to catch up.

“For some reason, she doesn’t like you, Aeneas.”

Aziraphale laughed before he could stop himself. He cleared his throat in an attempt to muddle things. “Really,” he said, trying to sound mild. “What makes you think that?”

“I know my wife.”

“You do?” He’d once seen Crowley spend a week obtaining a place in the Society of Antiquaries, sans any supernatural effort. It had been a wager, of sorts. When he’d brought Aziraphale along to Burlington House, some of the fellows there had claimed to have known Crowley for years. Aziraphale had asked Crowley about it—he’d expected Crowley had some trick up his sleeve after all. Crowley had told Aziraphale that no, he simply hadn’t stopped the fellows from making the assumptions that were most comfortable for them in the face of the lies Crowley presented.

“How would she form an instant antagonism like that?”

Crowley antagonized the way she slept and breathed and complained.

“Maybe it’s…” _How did the humans put it these days?_ “... chemical,” Aziraphale offered.

“She’ll get over it,” Mundson said, far too smug.

“I’m sure,” Aziraphale turned to head down the rest of the way. He was curious. “When did you meet her?”

“The day I left for the interior.”

“When did you get married?”

“The day after that.”

“Ah, of course.”

“What’s that?”

“I said ‘Quick’,” Aziraphale lied.

They reached the bottom. “You should know, Aeneas, that when I want something, I—”

“You buy it quick,” Aziraphale said briskly, facing him. “Love is a wonderful thing, Alan.”

“Do you want to know something funny, Aeneas?” Mundson was still standing on the last stair, doing something adjacent to looming.

“Sure.”

“She told me _she_ was born the night she met me. All three of us with no pasts—just futures. Isn't that interesting?”

How was Aziraphale supposed to anticipate the saying's originator to show up on a different continent? “I think it’s fascinating,” he said, lightly.

Mundson stepped down. “What’s the matter with you?” His tone was sharp. He’d never spoken to Aziraphale that way before. Aziraphale cast his thoughts about.

“I suppose I was just thrown off.” He settled on a good excuse. “You know, we’d talked about how gambling and women didn’t mix.”

“My wife doesn’t come under the category of women, Aeneas.”

There were too many failures of logic and virtue in that statement to try to unpack just now. Aziraphale chose to be gracious. “I could have made a mistake,” he said.

“You did. Don’t make it again.”

“Alan, will you come up and help me into this thing like a darling?” Crowley—calling from upstairs.

“I’ll see you at the casino,” Aziraphale said, taking that opportunity to make an exit.

“Alan?” she called again.

“In about an hour,” Mundson said to Aziraphale as he went upstairs.

* * *

Crowley had her arms up and out of the way as Mundson helped her zip her gown. “I can never get a zipper to close,” she mused. She was talking to fill the quiet. “Maybe that stands for something. What do you think?”

“I think you were very rude to him,” Mundson said from by her waist. He was sitting on the vanity’s stool, having pulled it over and taken a seat before beginning. Crowley made sure to stay relaxed. She’d heard the tone Mundson had taken with Aziraphale downstairs. The human was oblivious to his own hypocrisy. Possibly useful. Currently annoying. He finished closing her gown.

Crowley lowered her arm. “To whom?”

“Aeneas.”

“Was I?” she asked, making a show of checking her nails. When she moved to walk away, Mundson took her hand. She let it pull her back around, and made the movement languid, playful. “Oh dear,” she said. “That’s one of the things you’ll have to teach me, Alan. Good manners.”

Crowley waited to see if Mundson would let go. He didn’t. 

“I want you to like him,” he said.

That wouldn’t be a problem—beyond being a problem. She’d thought she was getting away from London, where Aziraphale was supposed to be. Things had been off for a while.

At present, Mundson had just given her an excellent piece of material. “You sure about that?” she asked, making it playful and sweet.

“What do you mean?”

Crowley moved towards the vanity and he let her go. “He’s a very attractive man, if you like the type.” She unstopped a bottle of perfume.

“He’s naive,” Mundson said. He stood, and relocated to the chaise lounge.

“Naive isn’t a fixed condition, Alan,” she said, walking over to join him. He was listening intently. She sat beside him. “People change. Almost when you’re not looking.”

“But I’ll be looking.”

* * *

Aziraphale was passing time on the casino floor, watching the goings-on. A man, familiar, approached the roulette table. Aziraphale decided to follow.

He’d seen the man here before. He was of small, slight stature—always nervous, uncertain. 

“Number 2,” the man told the dealer. His eyes were darting across the table, up to the walls, lingering anywhere but on someone’s face.

“Number 2 black,” the dealer said. He passed chips across the table to the man, and an envelope, which the man tucked out of sight. He took his winnings and departed.

“Place your bets, ladies and gentleman, place your bets,” intoned the dealer. 

Aziraphale tapped him gently on the shoulder. The dealer stopped. He turned to his colleague, said “Take over,” and gave Aziraphale his full attention.

“Friend of yours?” Aziraphale asked kindly.

“No, Mr. Farrell.”

“Going into business for yourself? We can talk about it, if so. You know you can be honest with me.” He’d worked hard to build trust, over the last few months.

“Orders, Mr. Farrell.’

“Ah.” _Mundson?_ he wondered. “Not my orders.”

“No.”

Aziraphale gave him a nod and smile of understanding, before excusing himself and returning to the lobby. 

“Aeneas! I’ve been looking for you.” Mundson: coming down the stairs from his office in full white tie.

“Gambling is illegal in Argentina, is that right?” Aziraphale asked, skipping past pleasantries and keeping his voice low.

Mundson slowed. “It isn’t right, but it’s true,” he said, and glanced back over his shoulders—checking for eavesdropping, most likely. 

“Is that the reason for the payoff?” He couldn’t show disapproval. He needed to use this to build trust.

“Payoff?”

The gentleman from the casino floor was heading towards the lobby’s grand doors. Aziraphale cocked his head towards him.

Mundson looked over at the departing man. “Naturally, that’s the reason,” he said, calm.

“Ah, I didn’t see anything in the books, is all,” Aziraphale managed. “Why doesn’t it, you know, come out of my check?”

“You’re in my complete confidence, Aeneas. You can ask any questions you wish.”

“Well, I did just ask one—”

“Now let’s have dinner, shall we? I left Antonia alone when I went looking for you, and Antonia is much too beautiful to be left alone.” Mundson put a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder, to steer him towards the dining tables.

“In other words, you’ve changed the subject,” Aziraphale said, letting himself be ferried along and wishing Mundson was less physically demonstrative.

“In other words, I’ve changed the subject.”

Crowley came into view, sitting at one of the tables. She smiled. Aziraphale felt terribly fond.

“Sit down, Aeneas.”

They settled into the booth. Without thinking, Aziraphale took a seat to her right, which left Mundson to sit on her left.

“Good evening, Mr. Farrell,” Crowley said. “You’re looking very beautiful.”

Aziraphale managed to suppress the urge to roll his eyes, and picked up his napkin. 

“Good evening, _Mrs. Mundson_ ,” he said.

“Can’t you return the compliment, Aeneas?” Mundson teased.

Aziraphale settled his hands on top of the napkin in his lap. He turned to face her more directly. “You’re looking very beautiful,” he said.

She was. Her hair was still in that cascade of waves, and she had changed into a glittering gown in a grey so dark it was nearly black. There was a thin silver chain around her neck, alongside a strand of delicate, faceted black beads. She’d chosen a matching bracelet.

When Aziraphale had last seen Crowley in London, he’d been wearing a suit—the picture of a leading man from human films. The gowns of this decade suited her just as brilliantly, of course.

“Why thank you,” she purred, leaning in. “If there’s anything I love, it’s a spontaneous impulsive compliment like that.”

Aziraphale didn’t have to force his smile. 

Conversation flowed easily for the rest of the meal. Crowley kept things moving, mostly focusing on Mundson. She’d make jokes, probably trying to draw him out, relax him. Mundson didn’t, though he answered her questions and paid careful attention—even laughed sometimes, and Crowley kept on like he was eagerly prompting her various anecdotes and observations. Aziraphale could see how she’d charmed him. If one only witnessed her half of the conversation, they’d assume she must have a spectacular conversation partner. 

Crowley reached into her purse and fished out a huge bracelet with clear stones. They had to be diamonds.

“Look, Aeneas. Isn’t it cute?”

“50,000 pesos and it’s cute. Isn’t she fabulous, Aeneas?” Mundson said, taking her hand to kiss it.

“Fabulous,” Aziraphale agreed, lifting his drink to—

“Wait, Aeneas. Let’s drink to us.”

_He shouldn’t do it. He shouldn’t._

Mundson was handing Crowley her drink. She glanced from him to Aziraphale, hesitated—opened her mouth in a little ‘o’ as she seemed to pick up on Aziraphale’s inclination. It was right there. He’d be helping her. He shouldn’t.

“To the three of us,” Mundson said.

“To the three of us,” Crowley said, happily. 

Aziraphale didn’t say anything.

“What’s the matter, Aeneas?” asked Mundson.

“I get confused,” Aziraphale said, doing it.

“Why?”

“Well, just a few weeks ago we drank a toast to the three of us.”

“ _Well,_ ” Crowley said, sounding delighted. She leaned closer to Aziraphale, “Who was the third one then?” and tilted her chin to Mundson. “Should I be jealous?”

“Hardly darling, it’s just a friend of mine.” A reasonable way to talk about a novelty… sword cane. Not even a proper one that was built to last. That mechanism wouldn’t make it through the decade.

“I haven’t caught a single clarifying pronoun from either of you.” 

“Well, what do you think, Aeneas?” Mundson asked.

Aziraphale didn’t look at Crowley, holding innocent, level eye contact with Mundson. “A her,” he said pleasantly.

Mundson’s eyes narrowed. “Why that conclusion?”

“Because one takes the potential to be dangerous for granted, at first seeing only the polished exterior.”

“Well, you haven’t much faith in the stability of women, have you, Aeneas? One wonders what woman brought you to this pretty pass. Doesn’t one, Antonia?”

The energy at the table had gone from easy to uncomfortable, and not just in the direction Aziraphale had expected. He’d made a mistake.

Crowley recovered quickly, of course. “One does,” she said, and then shrugged. ”Let’s hate her.”

“No,” Aziraphale said. “I don’t think it’s—” 

Mundson had stood wordlessly and walked away.

“Oh,” Aziraphale finished.

“You were doing so well,” Crowley said.

“Don’t you tempt me,” Aziraphale muttered, reaching for his drink, unsure if his reply even made much sense. He regarded the pair of men Mundson seemed to be approaching. “They’re new.”

“They were speaking to each other in German.”

“Hmm. I’ve never seen them here. But, he clearly knows them. I’ll have to ask later.”

“Don’t push him so much.”

“I—I was being foolish.”

“You were being clever.”

Aziraphale felt his face grow hot and focused on the men that Mundson was walking out with—probably up to his office.

“Do you think that’s your feeling?” he asked.

Crowley nodded. “Could be.”

“He’s paying some people off. Not sure if it’s the local P.D.yet or a different party.”

“You know, we never make sense of half the places head offices decide to send us. Why him, or here… have you given it any thought on how we play this?”

Aziraphale had, did again, and was going to reply when they both became aware of the gentleman standing in front of their table.

“Hi,” said Crowley.

“Señor, I’m Capitan Delgado. May I ask permission to dance with your lady?”

Aziraphale blinked up at him. “Oh, it’s not—”

“Sure, Capitan.” Crowley scooted out of the booth and offered him her hand. He led her away.

Someone tapped his shoulder—a man in the booth next to them. “Left alone? Mauricio Miguel Obregon, at your service.” 

“Aeneas Farrell, pleasure to meet you.” Aziraphale recognized him— he’d noticed him on other occasions. He didn’t gamble. He didn’t drink. “I’ve seen you here before.”

“Then that makes us even.”

“If I may be so bold, Mr. Obregon, I’m not quite sure what draws you to an... establishment like this.”

“The atmosphere has always interested me. Now, it positively fascinates me.” He was looking in the direction of Crowley and Mr. Delgado, as he spoke. The two stood close as they danced. Delgado was grinning—probably in response to something Crowley had said.

* * *

“You could be a professional dancer,” Delgado said. He placed his hand on her waist as she came out of a turn.

“I am,” Crowley said. “Well, I was.”

They drew closer to each other, and Delgado leaned forward, eyes drifting down to her mouth.

“Uh, that’s against our union rules.”

He nodded and took a small step back—respectful. Crowley liked him. “I always observe the rules and regulations,” he said, with a smile. “How is it that I’ve never seen you?”

“I didn’t dance here. America, last time around.”

“This isn’t America?”

Crowley nodded. He was right. “I mean New York.”

“Ah. So, your gentleman. Is he too a da—”

“He’s not my gentleman,” Crowley said. For some reason the assumption—even though it had been leveled at them for millenia—was newly irritating. How come? “And he’s not a dancer.”

“You know, the expression on his face says he wishes he were.”

She looked back at Aziraphale. Their eyes met and he frowned—looked away to search the crowd elsewhere. Crowley turned back. “A dancer?”

Delgado laughed, and they lapsed into silence. Crowley pulled him in a little closer as the music changed. “Don’t forget the rules and regulations.”

“However changeable, my lady.”

“They change with the weather.”

Delgado was an excellent dancer, and their movements were simple enough that Crowley’s thoughts were able to drift. She was looking at months of her and Aziraphale in the same place. This hadn’t happened since they’d formed the Agreement, and it had been a very busy set of centuries since then. A lot had happened. 

Someone cleared their throat. Crowley stopped and turned around. Aziraphale.

“Pardon me,” he said. “But your husband is showing.”

“Sent you over, did he?” 

“Quite.” 

Crowley turned back to Delgado. “Thanks,” she said, extending a hand to shake. “Perhaps again sometime.”

Delgado took her hand, giving it a sporting shake. “Until that sometime, I shall only miserably exist, Señora.” He gave Aziraphale a polite nod, and left them.

Aziraphale seemed irritated. 

“What?” Crowley said. They began to walk back.

“His possessiveness is… decidedly not his best quality.”

“I thought jealousy seemed like the easiest approach with him.” 

Aziraphale gave a small nod, his attention on where Mundson once again sat at their table. “I found him wrapping things up with those two men. He didn’t give me any detail when I asked. I asked if he was in trouble. He said ‘big trouble’?” 

“Hmm.”

They slid back into the booth. Aziraphale waited on Crowley to move towards the middle before following.

“I’m beginning to think I misjudged your Aeneas, Alan,” Crowley said.

“Oh?” said Mundson.

“He can be quite sweet. So protective.”

“Aeneas takes care of all the things that belong to me.”

She could _feel_ Aziraphale thinking some self-reassurance about grace through silence or something like that. The angel really didn’t like him. _Angel._

“He runs the joint,” she said.

“He runs the joint.”

“Hear that Aeneas, you’re supposed to guard me, because I belong to the boss. How will you like that?”

“Well, I do all sorts of odd jobs.”

Oh, that was good. Crowley snorted. “I bet this is the oddest job you’ve had in a minute.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth, but Mundson spoke first, “Now, before we were interrupted, I believe we were about to drink a toast. So, disaster to the wench who did wrong by our Aeneas.”

 _Wench, who still says wench?_ Crowley lifted her glass. Aziraphale didn’t. “No, Aeneas?” she said softly. “You won’t drink to that?”

Aziraphale’s face did a complicated thing, and he fixed Crowley with a look that—for a heartbeat—she almost thought was hurt. 

“Why not,” he said, and lifted his drink.

Later that night, Crowley lay across Mundson’s bed, still in her gown. The lights were off, and she was lost in thought, floating in the darkness. Well—not literally—because of the husband. It wouldn’t do for a trophy wife to levitate above a four-poster.

For as much as she’d felt Aziraphale’s absence, seeing him so unexpectedly was overwhelming.The complexity of her and Aziraphale—and if they were anything, they were always fucking _complicated_ —was a set of calculations she hadn’t accounted for. It was all weird, these days. Ever since their fight.

She heard Mundson enter, and rolled onto her side to better see him in the moonlight.

“Hi,” she said.

“You’re still dressed.”

“Yes.”

“Anything wrong?”

“Everything’s wonderful, but I told you zippers throw me.”

“May I help?”

“Thank you.” She rolled over again, since the zipper was on the other side of the gown. “You know, Alan. There was a terrible robbery in the garden last night. Did anyone tell you?”

He smiled a little, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Nobody but you, now.”

“You see, two clothespins held up a shirt.”

“You knew him before.” 

I didn’t, Crowley thought. ‘Before’ meant something else entirely to a demon. Still, Mundson was observant. Particularly perceptive, for a human.

“Who?” she asked.

“Aeneas.”

“Aeneas Farrell?”

“Aeneas Farrell. You knew him before.”

“No.” Crowley lay back down.

“Don’t lie to me, Antonia. Don’t ever lie to me.”

“I’m telling you the truth. I didn’t know him. I don’t think I’ve ever known him, Alan.”

You spend six millennia running into a hereditary enemy. And you’re brilliant, properly brilliant, but for once you’re stupid—so stupid. Because Aziraphale might have been special, might have been better company than anyone else in Heaven or Hell, but the last century had made it very clear how many assumptions Crowley had made about their… dynamic... and about how deeply she understood the angel.

“I see,” he said softly, voice gentle. He stroked her hair and Crowley leaned into it, welcoming the comfort, however convoluted this all was. “You hate him.”

Crowley didn’t even know where to begin, and she didn’t want to start, so she didn’t reply.

“But, hate can be a very exciting emotion,” he whispered. “Very exciting. Haven’t you noticed that?”

 _Oh, Satan._ This was all too easy. “You make it sound—”

“There’s a heat in it. That one can feel. Didn’t you feel it tonight? I did. It warmed me. Hate is the only thing that’s ever warmed me.”

Crowley found Aziraphale a few evenings later, what looked like hours-deep in the casino’s financial records. He’d discarded his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves. His hair was a mess. When she spoke to get his attention ( _‘Hi, angel.’_ ) he _melted_ with some sort of relief, so eager for an excuse to step away. How long had he been at it?

“He’s a mess,” Crowley told him. “I’ll make out of this just fine but I’m not sure how you can.”

Aziraphale looked pained. “Maybe if I… continue to steer the patrons towards the dining and entertainment—focus my efforts there.”

“You know, you could try to get this place shut down.” Had he considered that?

The suggestion earned an expression of mild distaste. “That seems like a lot of work. And… trading one avenue of corruption for another.”

Crowley gave him a sympathetic pout. “Sorry, angel. See you later.”


	2. Chapter 2

A month went by quickly and Crowley found herself settling in comfortably. She didn’t see much of Aziraphale, which was probably for the best. When they did speak, their conversation focused on logistics of their arrangement—making sure they weren’t undercutting their respective efforts, briefly checking in and going their separate ways. 

Buenos Aires was a fantastic city, and Crowley was having a blast exploring it. Would it have been more enjoyable with Aziraphale as company? Well. Maybe she’d float that suggestion by him in another month or two.

At present, she was seated at the restaurant's bar, talking with Pio. 

Pio was by far her favorite human on this assignment. He was in his fifties, terrifically sharp, with gentility and a sense of humor that made her seek him out most nights he worked. He had been pretty reserved towards her at first—the sort of politeness anyone would extend to the boss’s wife—but he’d warmed to her and her regular attempts at making him laugh and at adding some entertainment to his shifts.

“Oh,” Pio said, tone falsely ominous, looking over her shoulder. 

Crowley turned around. It was the man Mundson had been paying off. After Aziraphale had mentioned that to her, she’d made a point of spotting him—noticing his like-clockwork visits.

He seemed distressed. Not the usual furtiveness she’d seen in previous encounters—that eagerness to leave—but something else. And he wasn’t heading towards the exit. He was headed towards the stairs to Mundson’s office.

Crowley took a drag of her cigarette, turning that fact over in her mind.

“You know,” Pio said. “You smoke too much. I’ve noticed.”

“Aren’t you cute,” Crowley muttered.

“Only frustrated people smoke too much. And only lonely people are frustrated.”

“I’m not _lonely._ We’ve got each other.”

Pio laughed as he walked away.

* * *

Mundson’s tone was matter-of-fact. “Any losses that you incurred in business were reimbursed to you across the casino table. Regularly, and very generously. But in spite of orders, you continued to sell tungsten wire to the Bendolin company.”

The man had interrupted them, asking why his payments had stopped. Aziraphale was hanging back, observing the exchange between him and Mundson. Worry and fear were rolling off of the other man in waves. The context of the current discussion was missing, but Aziraphale made sure to commit the conversation to memory–to figure this out, later.

“But, Mr. Bendolin can’t manufacture electric light globes without tungsten wire for filaments, Mr. Mundson. He can’t continue in business without—”

“We don’t _wish_ Mr. Bendolin to continue in business. Isn’t that clear to you?”

For as distressed as the man was, his voice pleading and manner frantic, Mundson matched it with a still, dangerous quiet.

“But, he’s the only outlet for my product in this territory, Mr. Mundson. If I don’t sell to him, I can’t continue in business. Don’t you understand that?”

“Perfectly,” Mundson said, so calm.

Aziraphale watched as some heartbreaking realization dawned on the other man’s face. “And that… doesn’t matter to you, does it, Mr. Mundson?”

Mundson tilted his head, frowned. “On the contrary,” he said. “I sympathize with you deeply. Life is very difficult for the defenseless ones of the world.”

“Yes,” the man said. Something in his voice had emptied out. “As you say. Thank you, Mr. Mundson.”

And with that, he left.

“I thought we were in the gambling business?” Aziraphale attempted.

Mundson glared at him. “Leave me alone.”

“Fair enough. I’ll see you later.” Aziraphale let himself out.

Downstairs, he noticed Crowley at the bar, talking to Pio. He knew he should tell her about what had happened. 

He’d been largely avoiding her, again. But, now the avoidance felt mutual, and more natural than in London. She probably wanted to focus on her work. And… things had been strange ever since their fight. This was just a new shade of strangeness. Perhaps he’d finally pulled far enough away that they’d really lost whatever… affinity... they’d had. Maybe that was for the best.

He approached the bar. “Hello, Mrs. Mundson. Pio.”

“Mr. Farrell,” Pio acknowledged. He was a ways down, cleaning glasses.

Crowley frowned at Aziraphale. “What’s got you all woebegone?”

“I’m woebegone?”

“You are.” She paused, considered him for a bit longer. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Aziraphale recounted a quick summary of what had transpired in Mundson’s office. Crowley nodded, thoughtful, then she looked away, at the dance floor.

“Angel, do you dance?”

“What?” 

“Do you dance? Can you dance?

He gave a slow nod of his own, feeling disappointed that such things had already gone out of style. “The gavotte is unfortunately not as popular as it used to be.”

She looked back at him, and a real, genuine smile spread across her face. “The gavotte?”

“Yes,” he said, his disappointment turning to happiness, pride even.

“You learned the gavotte?”

“I did! I’m very good at it.”

“Amazing,” Crowley said. She sounded surprised and delighted.

They were quiet then, and Aziraphale was about to make his excuses to leave when Crowley said, “Do you want to?”

“Want to what?”

“Want to dance? Mundson can spot us when he comes out of his lair.”

“His _lair_. Really.”

“You’re such good material!”

“I’ve noticed.” Aziraphale didn’t find the idea of annoying Mundson unappealing. He didn’t mind that Crowley was clearly using his proximity to her as material. It wasn’t the first time. And the idea of dancing with Crowley made him feel far too many things at once, so he didn’t dwell on it. “Fine.”

“I’ll lead. It’s really just swaying these days. Even we can’t mess it up.”

She stood, and extended her hand to him—bowed with her foot out in front of her in a fashion that had passed decades ago. Aziraphale hesitated, but he took it, and she led him out onto the dance floor.

Her hand was cool and dry. He loved her.

She turned back around, once they were far enough in—past the other dancing pairs, and raised their clasped hands, putting her other on his shoulder. “You put your other hand on my waist.”

“Right.”

The sequins of her dress made him think of scales—of her form as a huge, coiling snake. He’d never touched her, inside of that corporation, had no memory to legitimize the comparison. It was purely sentimental.

“So we just…” She moved a little. They sort of swayed side to side. It was clumsy, and Aziraphale focused on her hair. Her face was so close—though in her heels she had several inches on him, and he didn’t want to gaze disconcertedly into those lenses.

Crowley was attempting to lead, but Aziraphale was overthinking things. He kept assuming he knew where to move next and was making things stilted and awkward. He nearly stepped on her foot. Oh, good lord.

“Uh. It, uh, might be easier if we stand close, like the other people are doing.”

Aziraphale looked around, like he had never seen humans dance before. “Right, of course.”

“So, we’ll—”

“Right.”

They both stepped into each other, and then there wasn’t any space at all. Their chests bumped. Crowley moved her hand on his shoulder further down behind his neck, and he felt the soft pressure of her head coming to rest against his. 

His lashes started to drift downwards, but self-preservation stopped him, not wanting to bump into other humans by mistake.

The music was some slow song he didn’t know, and they swayed—it really was just swaying from foot to foot these days—without speaking, for minutes.

“You know, we’ve never done this before,” Crowley murmured.

“Really?” Aziraphale said softly, knowing she was right.

It was easy to pretend, like this. To live some fantasy where they got to dance when they wanted. Where Crowley possibly felt the same depths of affection that Aziraphale had realized he held as—what was the ethereal equivalent of a chemical element? Aziraphale was made of love. And then Crowley had handed him his satchel of books, and he’d realized Crowley was _there_. That within the love that _was_ Aziraphale, was love for Crowley. Specifically. As deep as anything could be—or could be felt. 

He hadn’t noticed it happening. There had been no opportunity to get out of the way. And he couldn’t believe love was wrong, even if—even if she was… 

He didn’t know what to do about it.

The song ended. They stepped away from each other.

“I’m going to…” Crowley said, already walking off with incredible abruptness.

“Yes, I’ll just—” Aziraphale said, to her back and to the air that had no business feeling this thick.

He found Mundson sitting at a table, joined him, and decided to try again. “Look, Mundson. I’m not naive. You can tell me things.”

That got a shrug in response. “Antonia warned me that you’d change. Where is she?”

She’d warned him? “Oh, she stepped outside for some air.” Probably.

“Alone?”

“Well, I don’t think she really knows anyone around here.”

Mundson gave him a very intent look. “You’d know more about that than I would, wouldn’t you Aeneas?”

And then a bullet hit the glass behind them—the shot echoing. People screamed.

Aziraphale was on his feet immediately, placing himself in front of Mundson and searching the room. 

The man from earlier—a pistol in his hand—terrified. Their gazes met, and something behind his eyes crumbled further. Something was terribly wrong. He turned and ran. Aziraphale followed. 

Up ahead, the sound of a second gunshot came from the lavatory. Aziraphale hurried towards it. Casey and Werther jogged up alongside Aziraphale as he got there. Their guns were drawn.

There were no sounds coming from inside. Aziraphale held up a hand to them, a sign to hang back, and he pushed the door open slowly.

Oh, no.

It was a relief to see there hadn’t been anyone else in there—when the man had run in. 

But, no one would be coming back out.

He stepped away enough to let the door close. “Werther.”

“Yes, boss?”

“You need to call the police. Casey, get Mr. Mundson home.”

They nodded their assent and hurried away. When they’d left, Aziraphale leaned back against the doorframe. No one could be allowed inside. He closed his eyes. He could have stopped this. He hadn’t—

“Bad form isn’t it, to make a scene in public? The ocean would have been quieter.” It was Obregon.

Aziraphale couldn’t walk away—couldn’t remove himself from the situation—and couldn’t refuse to dignify such callousness with a response.

He opened his eyes. “I think you should leave,” he said. There wasn’t any power behind it, but his patience had worn thin, and the words came out flat.

Obregon stared, whatever he’d been about to say next stopped by Aziraphale’s clear lack of patience. Visibly chastened, he left.

* * *

The police showed up. Aziraphale handled everything. Witnesses were interviewed. Crowley might have worked a few demonic miracles, to ease hysteria and smooth things along. The body had been removed, about an hour ago. Now it was just the last few officers, wrapping things up.

Crowley found Aziraphale sitting on the stairs outside. 

He was holding himself very still. Once she was closer, she saw his eyes were wide and he wasn’t blinking much, staring out at nothing. It had been a long time since she’d seen him look like that, and it made her tense with feeling to see it now. He’d internalized this. 

They’d seen so much death on Earth. Even if some parts of human lives were hard to relate to—how short they were mostly, and the lack of a predetermination on Good v. Bad, which was a Whole Thing—how much choice did some people actually have? Circumstances were often cruel.

Anyway. They couldn’t go around emotionally investing in the demise of every human life. Not when you’re a demon. Not even when you’re an angel. But sometimes, something would catch. 

It had become something personal. She decided to sit down beside him. 

“There wasn’t anything you could have done, angel.”

“I have to speak to Mundson,” he said, just barely audible. “Figure out what all of this is.”

“I’d seen him here and there. He always came and went quickly.”

“I did, too. He was being paid off. If I’d…”

“You can’t think about it that way.”

Aziraphale shook his head. He didn’t reply.

“I understand,” Crowley whispered.

She saw him smile in profile. It was terribly sad. “I know,” he said. He turned then, to look at her. “Why aren’t you home?”

“I pretended to be upset and told Mundson I wouldn’t be able to calm down until I knew things were settled here. Very emotional. He left me in your care.”

Aziraphale winced. 

That hadn’t been her intention. Maybe it was his usual self-recrimination. She wanted to reassure him further, but she didn’t know where they stood—if that would be welcome. 

She didn’t know what to do. And she didn’t dare ask—the big question. When did things go wrong? Why was it all so confusing now?

But... 

Well. Maybe that was a distraction, wasn’t it? Asking? Maybe awkwardness was better than self-recrimination—than a lack of hope. It wasn’t anywhere close to a first-time tactic. And if she knew, finally, maybe she could help.

“Aziraphale,” she said. “Do you feel like I messed it all up?”

He squinted at her in the dim light, not seeming to follow. But then, she watched that mind of his zoom out beyond their present circumstances and begin to comprehend. “You mean…”

“Are you still, you know… angry. About the stuff with the holy water,” she voiced what he had seemed to infer, to make sure they were clear on what she meant.

Aziraphale frowned as he processed the subject change. “No.” He stopped—took a breath. “Yes,” he said. “But not—it’s not....”

“I’m sorry.” 

His brows shot up in surprise.

She started to say, “I didn’t handle it—”

“You shouldn’t have asked me.” He turned away again, shaking his head. 

How much that hurt caught her unawares. They’d never discussed it, and it felt fresh, the details of that argument still under her skin.

“Right,” she said. And she was angry. “Because we were just fraternizing—”

“Oh, Crowley.”

“Keep forgetting myself. Should know better.’

“Crowley—”

“This has only ever been a business arrangement.”

“The—Arrangement isn’t even a thousand years old.”

“Keeping things civil with your natural enemy, of course. Easier that.”

“Crowley.”

“What?”

“I was terrified.”

“So was I!” she shouted.

Wait, what—angel? Terrified? Oh.

“I wasn’t trying to scare you.” _Why was he terrified?_ “Why did I scare you?”

He was looking at her so intently. It made her tense up. “I thought you were asking for a suicide pill,” he said. He’d said as much at the time, too.

“I wasn’t.” _And she had told him she wasn’t._

“I believe you,” he said. _He believed her now?_ “Why did you want it?”

_Wasn’t it obvious?_ , she thought, and said “A… a weapon.”

“Ah.”

“If…”

“Yes.” 

_So he’d been scared of—_ “I don’t plan on destroying myself, Aziraphale.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“It would have been nice if you’d given me some credit.”

“I’m not supposed to give you credit. You’re a demon.”

“Right.”

“Crowley,” said so softly, almost beseeching. 

She didn’t reply, and the silence stretched out.

“You know,” Aziraphale said into the emptiness. “I was worried you’d found another way, after enough time had passed.”

_Oh._

“I thought I was alone.”

_Was he… not alone… with her? Before? Oh._ “Aziraphale.”

He didn’t acknowledge her, but continued. “I eventually figured out that you had to still be around, or else someone would have taken over that flat of yours. Might have… swung by and checked to see if there was still some sort of presence of power holding it all together.”

Crowley’s chest felt weird. “You checked on me.”

He shrugged. “Well…”

“Professional interest,” Crowley offered, overwhelmed with nothing-she-could-label.

His smile was grateful. “Right.”

Werther approached them. Told them the police were finished.

Aziraphale stood. “Let’s get you back home.”

The street was hued orange from the overhead sodium vapor lamps, and the trees were lit almost gold: the middle grove, between the silver and the diamonds, if this had been Grimm.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“I don’t feel like you messed it all up. You didn’t.” His voice was soft.

_Then why was everything so different?_ , Crowley wondered.

* * *

“He kill himself, Aeneas?”

“Yes.”

Mundson’s stride faltered—a hesitation. They were standing in an upstairs hallway. The lights were off. Did he regret his hand in this? Was there some potential for change? Some hope?

His back was turned, but his voice was clear. “When a man becomes weak enough to accept a bribe, he’s already a dying man.”

_How deep did that conviction go_ , Aziraphale thought. How far down did he mean it? 

Mundson turned. He seemed contemplative. “It didn’t bother you, did it?”

“Of course it bothered me.” Aziraphale was tired. He wanted to be alone. But, this was his duty. “I’ve seen a lot, Alan.”

“Before you were born.”

“For a very long time, in a lot of places. Every life is important. Every person is a sum-total of love, and fear, and significance on every scale that can possibly exist. Endless potential. Hope. And when someone dies, that path, made up of all those actions and ripples and prayers and promises is—stopped. And that’s… always sad. But… can I ask you something, Alan?”

“You can ask.”

“Why were you afraid, back there?” Aziraphale had seen something, something fleeting, as he’d left him at their table.

“Oh, no.” Mundson sounded surprised. The door closest to them led to his home office. “I was amazed. I realized something could happen to me. That’s why I’m going to tell you something. Come in.”

* * *

A few nights later, in the casino at past 3:00 in the morning, Aziraphale heard the sounds of a guitar, skillfully played. He had been working late, and he wandered downstairs, seeking out the sound.

He found Crowley sitting on the bar, the guitar in her hands. Pio was leaning against the bartop, done for the night, his overshirt unbuttoned—smiling up at her. 

Crowley finished picking through the song and Pio clapped softly. “Cheers,” she said.

“Hello, Cr—Mrs. Mundson. Pio.”

Crowley looked up. “Hey, Aeneas.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Playing guitar.”

“I heard. It was very nice.”

“It wasn’t.” She set the guitar down beside her. “Hope that was worth digging out from storage.”

“Lovely end to my day, dear.” Pio took the instrument and gave Aziraphale a nod. He left them alone.

Crowley reached under the bar and procured a glass. “So the two of you spoke?”

“We did.”

They settled into a booth and Aziraphale explained.

“Tungsten?”

“Earnings from this place have apparently financed a cartel. It’s all under Mundson’s name, he did it on behalf of those men who’d come to meet him—who they work for. He showed me a safe in his office. Have you been in his office at home?”

“Once.”

“It’s behind that ridiculous painting of him. He showed me how to open it. There’s papers—signatures, instructions on how to carry on. In case anything should happen to him.”

“Congratulations.”

“A cartel is an international monop—”

“I know what a cartel is, angel.” Crowley made a face—thinking. “Tungsten.”

“I don’t know much about it. Mundson seems to think it’s worth getting shot at for the pleasure of monopolizing it. He said, _‘A man who controls a strategic material can control the world, Aeneas.’_ ”

“Nnnh. Overdramatic. He’s not wrong, though. Maybe not the world, but…”

Aziraphale got up to fetch another bottle. At some point, they relocated back to Mundson’s office. Planning meandered into rambling conversation. The way it used to. It felt… normal.

After some time, they were both very, very drunk. 

Crowley was sprawled on the floor, her dress pushed up around her thighs, her back against the couch that Aziraphale still sat on. She was talking about cars. Aziraphale was following nothing. It was lovely.

“Ton of manufacturing, up until ‘42—”

“You’re incredible.”

Crowley squinted, weaving a little. She turned to look behind her, where the couch was, who Aziraphale definitely wasn’t addressing. Now, seeming confused, she let her head fall back with a thunk onto its seat. “Are you talking to me?” she said, up at him.

“You’re so good at everything. Everything you do, you’re so good at.”

Crowley struggled around and climbed back up beside him. “So are you!” She blew at a pouf of hair that had fallen into her face—interfered with her accusation. It didn’t work. She tried to reach it a few times but it just made more fall around her. “Angel, can you?”

Aziraphale concentrated very hard and reached to move it back away from her face. “I love your hair like this,” he whispered.

Her eyes were so bright—she’d taken off her sunglasses—and wide with surprise. “You noticed?”

“Well, there’s a lot of it.”

She made a _’psh’_ noise. “I didn’t notice... you noticed that stuff.”

“I always notice.” The words caught up with him after they’d already gotten out. _Oh. Good lord._

Crowley suddenly seemed a little paler, like something didn’t agree with her. “I should head back,” she said, her voice going a little high pitched at the end.

“Oh, I could—escort you?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

They sobered up on the walk, and when they reached their destination, Crowley lingered in the open doorway, making fun. “Now that you’ve delivered me, don’t you want to wait and get a receipt from the man—oh, Alan.” She walked out of view.

Oh, dear. Aziraphale winced and followed after her.

Alan was standing just inside. He wore a robe over his pajamas. Most humans would have found it difficult to be so foreboding in an ensemble like that.

“You’re up,” Crowley said, her sense of observation keen as ever.

Aziraphale attempted to lighten the mood. “Late to bed, early to rise makes a m—”

“Let Antonia talk, Aeneas.”

“I thought I could sneak out and get back without waking you.”

“No.”

“We went swimming. You were asleep. All of a sudden I just had to go swimming. It was so hot.” She wasn’t trying to be convincing. Her hair wasn’t even damp. “You weren’t worried, were you?”

Earlier, when they’d been drinking and discussing Mundson, Aziraphale had said he almost felt bad for him. Crowley had tilted her head, said _“Do you?”_ Aziraphale had replied _”Almost,”_ into his glass, just loud enough for Crowley to catch it and laugh.

“Yes,” Mundson said.

“Oh. Gosh, I’m sorry.”

“Is that what’s making you so nervous?” He had no reason to assume it was actually six millennia of acting practice. 

“Nervous?” she said, nervously. “Well, a terrible thing happened. No wonder I’m nervous.”

Mundson nodded, looking just as unconvinced as she’d surely intended. He had softened a bit, though. “What happened to you?”

“I lost that beautiful clip you gave me. The one that cost so much.”

“Is that _all?_ ”

“Thanks for being so nice about it.” Crowley started to shrug out of her coat. “I’m terribly sorry.”

“A clip can be replaced. You see, I thought I’d lost you.”

Crowley folded the coat over her arm. It was charcoal wool, finely tailored. “Me?” She laughed, so warm, so affectionate. “Not a chance.”

“And that couldn’t be replaced.”

“Shall we have a drink before I start to cry?” Aziraphale said, thoroughly tired of this.

Crowley looked back over her shoulder, amused. “You see, Aeneas doesn’t think that would be a tragedy. If you lost me.”

“Statistics show there are more people in the world than anything else. Except insects,” he offered.

Crowley would hate the math joke, and as expected, it earned him an eye roll. She turned back to Mundson. “With that charming observation, I’ll walk out. Just to change my clothes. I want to have breakfast with you.” 

She made to head up the stairs, but stopped. “Oh, by the way. I ought to mention that Aeneas is a fantastic swimmer. This morning, he outdistanced me beautifully. But some day, there’ll be a return match. And then, look out, Aeneas, doll.” She jogged up the rest of the way, because she was terrible, and disappeared into the upper hallways.

Aziraphale turned to go.

“Aeneas.” 

Aziraphale let go of the door handle. “Yes?”

“You’ll have to teach me how to swim.” 

Was that—Aziraphale studied Mundson’s face. There was interest there, but also accusation. “Sure,” he said softly. “Anytime.”

“Apparently you’re very good at it.”

“Haven’t had any complaints.”

“Did you teach Antonia how to swim?”

Aziraphale exhaled through his nose, almost a laugh. “Antonia has never needed someone to teach her things, and I think you know that. Simply for… people to stay out of her way. Goodnight, Alan.”

* * *

It all went wrong at Carnaval.

It was the establishment’s busiest night of the year. Everyone was dressed to the nines. There was music, dancing, celebration. And, familiar faces. 

Aziraphale noticed the men from the prior month, who’d spoken German, and then Obregon found him on a balcony. Wonderful.

He offered Aziraphale a cigarette. Aziraphale shook his head.

“I’m back again, Mr. Farrell.”

_Like a rash,_ Aziraphale thought. “It’s practically old home week. We’re all here, aren’t we?”

“Yes. We all are here, Mr. Farrell. I would suggest you see that Mrs. Mundson goes home.”

Aziraphale wheeled around. “ _You_ would suggest? Has anyone ever told you, Mr. Obregon, that you sound like a bad melodrama?”

“Yes.”

Oh. Well.

“There’s going to be trouble,” Obregon added.

“Excuse me,” Aziraphale said. He needed to find Mundson.

Mundson’s ‘costume’ for the evening was a dark cloak wrapped over his suit. He had his cane. It suited him. Very Leroux. He was lingering outside the inner doors to the casino. Aziraphale hurried over.

“Alan. I see you’ve arrived.”

“Here I am,” Mundson intoned. 

“Apparently.”

“Where’s Antonia?”

“Oh, she’s around somewhere.” He’d seen her briefly at the start of the evening, in a black satin gown that could ruin lives. A form that might have _launch’d a thousand ships, and burnt the topless towers of Illium_ , but on purpose. It really was quite crowded. “It’s hard to keep track of anyone in this mob.”

“Find her for me, Aeneas.”

“Ah. Sure. I can’t guarantee how long it will take.”

“I’ll wait.”

“Alright.”

“I’m a great one for waiting, Aeneas.” He smiled a little. Aziraphale tried not to fault him for being likable.

A couple of hours passed. He wasn’t having any success finding Crowley. Midnight rolled around, and confetti rained down over the crowd. Trumpets sounded: decidedly non-heraldic. And then the screaming started—coming from the casino.

Aziraphale pushed past people, against the flow of bodies, towards the sound. He ran into Crowley.

“Angel.”

“I don’t like this.”

“I know, come on.”

She grabbed his wrist and pulled him along. The crowd flowed away from her. She was using power to slip forward. 

They made it through. One of Mundson’s messengers. Dead on the floor. Blood on his lips. Poison.

Crowley turned to Aziraphale. “I’ll handle things down here. Go find Mundson.”

Aziraphale looked up. The blinds in Mundson’s office window were moving—closing. He headed that way, steeled himself as he walked up the stairs.

Mundon was alone inside—smoking. The news didn’t seem to surprise him.

“I missed my appointment.”

“What?”

“With the Germans. They were bound to retaliate. I’m next, naturally. Did you find Antonia?”

“Wh—yes. Alan, you should get out of here.”

“There won’t be any more trouble tonight.”

“You can’t know that.”

Mundson leaned back against the wall. “In _chemin de fer_ , you play for the full stake or you pass the shoe. You can't rule the world by passing the shoe. Do as I say, Aeneas. Take her home. Keep her safe.” He reached out, like he was going to touch Aziraphale’s cheek, but he lowered his hand back down. “Didn’t you say you were obedient?”

Speaking of, Aziraphale realized, he didn’t see Mundson’s cane. He turned his head, to look—

“Don’t,” Mundson whispered. “Wait for me at home, Aeneas. I may need both of my little friends, tonight.”

He was taking responsibility, standing up for people. It was something. Aziraphale needed to allow this. “Okay,” he said, and turned to go.

Crowley was outside of the door. “We moved the body. The men have things under control.” She leaned a little closer. “What’s that look?”

“Let’s step outside,” Aziraphale said. He explained as they walked.

“It makes sense.”

“Do you think he’s right? What if other people are in danger?”

“Everyone’s leaving. The police are on their way here. Again. Second time in as many months, and the gambling operation isn’t exactly low-key tonight, so that may spell out some changes. Alan is... capable, angel.” 

_Alan._ Well, they were married. “You’re right. Did you see if those men left?”

“No, I didn’t see either of them. But, I think it would be too risky for them to stay with everything going on tonight.”

“They’ll be back.”

“I think so.”

They walked into cool air. Aziraphale took a deep breath.

“Let’s take Mundson’s car. Come on,” Crowley said. She’d produced a set of keys from somewhere.

It was parked around the back of the building. Something very expensive—beyond that, Aziraphale couldn’t tell much about it. 

They got inside, and Crowley switched motors on, adjusted knobs. She took them a different route, down side streets. The road they’d usually use was filled with cheering crowds.

Neither of them talked, and Aziraphale was in his own head. His thoughts occupied with twisting clouds of concern— bad feelings he didn’t see clearly—couldn’t yet parse the truth of.

So the tragedy of the night was over, but it would happen again. They’d be back.

And those men weren’t alone. They were the hands of an organization with deep pockets, deep resources. It wasn’t safe here. Not for Mundson, and not for the people around him while he was involved in all this. 

It was dark, when they went inside the house. 

Crowley snapped her fingers—shrunk by several inches. She’d gotten rid of her heels. She padded away, towards the bar. “There isn’t anybody here but us, you know,” she called. “Everyone else is celebrating Carnaval.” 

She came back with a bottle of something and a couple of glasses. “Come on.”

They went up the stairs.

Aziraphale was stuck here, in Buenos Aires. Stuck with a mess he couldn’t abandon. Had… and was it possible they’d made it worse? Mundson and his ambition were the source of all this, and the man had been caught between two opposing forces—a literal angel and devil on his shoulders, for months. 

There was more danger coming. 

They walked into the upstairs sitting room. Neither of them turned on a light, and the moon through the upstairs windows cast things silver. Crowley set the bottle down, took off her sunglasses, turned to pass Aziraphale an empty tumbler for the whiskey.

Aziraphale took it from her, stared at it. Set it down.

“Crowley, I think you should go.”

She froze, confused. And there was something guarded to her—hurt. “What?” she asked, quietly.

“People are dead. Everything’s a mess. You’ve got plenty to put in a report.”

Her expression hadn’t shifted, and she said, slowly “You aren’t—”

“No! No.” He didn’t mean it was her fault. He wasn’t blaming her for this.

“But, I can’t leave yet,” he said. “And it’s only going to get more dangerous here.”

Crowley breathed out a small huff of breath, seeming to think about that. “So you’re going to stay, and… do what? Convince Mundson to abandon a life of crime?”

“I don’t know.” 

“I think he’s beyond hope.”

“Well, we certainly didn’t help.”

“I wasn’t supposed to help.”

“I know. But, I want to try to salvage what I can of this.”

She didn’t speak, for a few moments. “I could hang around. Keep you company. I don’t have any other assignments yet. I could... become a source of moral fortitude for Alan.”

She was offering for him.

“It’s still not safe here.”

“I don’t mind.”

“I do.”

Crowley rolled her eyes, making the movement a full-body thing. “ _Come on._ What’s the worst that could happen, I get discorporated? I’d pop back up after a bit.”

“You’ve never been discorporated before.”

“Eh. First time for everything.”

“And then you’re subject to reviews. Questions. Extra attention. It’s too much of a risk.”

“We take risks all the time.”

“I know, and why on earth would I want to add to that?”

“ _You’re_ not adding to anything.”

“You matter to me. You being safe matters to me.”

Crowley froze. “So you’re just… saying that,” she said, faintly. The words. Out loud.

Aziraphale didn’t know what came next. “I guess I am.”

“Aziraphale…”

“Sorry?”

“Fuck off.” She sighed. “It’s too bad you couldn’t just hate me.”

“What?’

“Wouldn’t that have been easier?”

Aziraphale knew she was right, in a way. He was being honest with himself. “Yes,” he said. “But, it doesn't matter. I’m an angel. I don’t hate anything. And I could never hate you. I—” He stopped.

Crowley leaned back, where she stood several feet away from him. She didn’t actually take a step but the movement was self-protective. “What?” she said, very quietly.

What came to Aziraphale’s mind—because he’d carried it in his thoughts for some time now, and what he said softly into the shadowed room, was:

_"...though he struggled with desire  
To calm and comfort her in all her pain,  
To speak to her and turn her mind from grief,  
And though he sighed his heart out, shaken still  
With love of her, yet took the course heaven gave him  
And went back to the fleet."_

Her eyes went very wide, as he recited the verse. And she was blinking an unusual amount, for her. “Oh Satan,” she whispered, shaking her head and staring at the floor. She looked back up at him, stunned. “And then your name… _That’s so literal._ ” It was an accusation. A… critique?

_Wait._ She—“Did you actually read Virgil?”

“Were you there for the Dark Ages?” Crowley said, incredulous. “I had a lot of time to kill. _Aeneas_ , and then you… I hate you.”

She said it with resignation, with affection carried like a millstone around one’s neck.

Aziraphale had known Crowley cared for him. She went to far too much trouble for someone who only viewed their arrangement as business. Their friendship had been very clear to Aziraphale when he’d pushed her away, and avoided her throughout the centuries. _’I hate you,’_ wasn’t really new information. But, it was. He understood, and it was shocking to realize that it went so deep, that she really—

They were staring at each other. Crowley took a step forward, and so did Aziraphale. They walked through the remaining space between them, both overwhelmed.

Crowley smiled at him, like her heart was broken. ”I hate you so much, I think it might kill me.” 

Aziraphale reached out, but then hesitated—pulled his hand back away from her cheek because he didn’t know if—and Crowley pulled him into an embrace. Aziraphale held her tightly, wrapped his arms around her waist and put his other hand into her hair.

“Don’t say that,” he said, into her shoulder. “Don’t you dare.”

“It hasn’t yet.” She rubbed her cheek against him. The words were spoken quietly. “This—”

He lifted his head up, to reply. Their faces were very close. He could feel the change in the air, against his skin, from her proximity. Their gazes held. 

Aziraphale felt the realization occur to them both—the shared awareness of the position they were in. Crowley’s eyes flicked down, to his mouth, back up. Neither of them moved away.

They could have. It was very clear. And the fact that they hadn’t was something they both understood.

They moved past boundaries drawn out before time had existed. Ones, in reality, they’d crossed long ago. But here, they made a choice. Their lips met.

Crowley’s mouth was a bit cooler than a human’s would have been, the feeling of her lipstick smooth and fantastic. The kiss stretched time out—there was endlessness in this—before the brush and fade of lips as they parted.

Their eyes met immediately. They wanted this—were both in this. They kissed again. It should have hurt. It should have carried some power, something so immense and transformative, but it was soft, careful. Aziraphale lifted his hands to her face, felt her cheekbones and jaw under his fingers—the frame of her corporation. He wanted to know the entirety of Crowley—the ancient, immense being standing with him on this planet in their human forms.

Their mouths parted, breath passing over their skin, mingling. Her tongue slid against his, some electrifying level of articulation beyond what Aziraphale had thought to expect. The feeling reached to the base of his spine, made things tight and he sighed against her mouth as she pulled him closer.

* * *

It wasn’t like she’d never thought about it. If Crowley would have wanted to do this, no one made more sense than Aziraphale. They understood… their lives.

She’d seen that profile of his, in taverns and on cliff sides and under sun and starlight. With his hair like clouds and eyes like... oceans. His strength and talent and his mind and heart, and obviously if she’d wanted to try this with anyone, of course it would be with him.

He was kissing her, and he wanted this. He—he’d said he—

A door slammed. It startled them and they pulled apart. Aziraphale shot her a quick look of worry, and ran out of the room, moving fast. Crowley followed. She pulled her skirt higher to keep up as they both tore down the stairs.

The sound of a car speeding away—the Coupe. Crowley snapped herself through a wall to outside. Mundson in the convertible, almost out of sight.

“Angel, get out here,” she yelled.

She went for the car they’d arrived in—the Jaguar—ignoring the uneven ground below her bare feet. Aziraphale barely had a chance to shut the door before she stepped on the gas.

They followed Mundson out to Palermo. Aziraphale didn’t shut up the whole way.

“This is our fault. Oh, good lord, Crowley. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not,” she said, concentrating on keeping other cars out of her way.

“What do you think he’s going to do?”

“They’ve been building an airstrip out here. I can’t think of anything else.”

“Oh…” Aziraphale trailed off.

The gravel road leading into a field ran out and Crowley braked to a stop.

They both got out, only to see Mundson running at full clip towards a waiting plane. His cloak was billowing out behind him.

“A cape?” Crowley said.

“Really,” came Aziraphale’s voice from beside her. She glanced over at him. Oh—her comment, not the cape.

The plane took off, flying out over the Río de la Plata.

They stared helplessly. 

Another car pulled up. Police. A man got out. 

“Detective Obregon.” Guess Aziraphale knew him.

“So you’d figured that part out.”

“I’d assumed it was a possibility.”

Obregon walked up beside them. “Africa’s more than 2000 miles away. I don’t think he’ll make it.”

“I don’t think he intends to try,” Aziraphale said, voice low.

The path of the plane angled downward. It hit the water with enough force to explode, a ball of fire on the horizon. Actually—did that—maybe he’d done something to the engine. Done. Crashed. Done for.

“Well,” Crowley said. “This could have gone better.”


	3. Chapter 3

They found one of the German gangsters dead in Mundson’s office. Stabbed beneath the chin. Alan had defended himself, presumably.

No body was found among the plane wreckage. Unsurprising, considering the blast, and the water. A death certificate was signed, and they waited for Mundson’s will to be read. 

Crowley got it all. And Aziraphale was named the sole executor.

The fake marriage thing came up over drinks, as most of their plans tended to. People were making assumptions about the two of them—the nature of their relationship—a fact Aziraphale brought up.

“I think they think the ah… affair… was legitimate.”

And they were both acting like it hadn’t been that, an affair—or legitimate—so.

Crowley shrugged. “It might be easier if we let them believe it is, since you can’t leave yet.”

“You don’t have to stay here.”

“Do you want me to go?”

“No.” He didn’t look away, and he smiled.

At least they were being honest about that, finally. That they were friends. Actually friends.

And a marriage (it wasn’t even the first time they’d pretended to be married, or a couple, though it was the first time it had gone beyond a party or an outing—it had smoothed the way sometimes, during particularly close-minded eras) solidified interests, made people less likely to interfere. Crowley knew she was weeks away from dinner invitations and tedious inquiries. Aziraphale was having to multitask maintaining his authority over Mundson’s various lines of business and operations as he tried to give it all up.

After the night of Mundson’s death, Aziraphale had, begrudgingly, chosen to cooperate with the local P.D. Obregon was relentless, and while Aziraphale and Crowley shared in their distaste towards the idea of helping the police—they had their individual reasons for each finding systemic corruption pretty repulsive—it was clearly the ideal resolution to this whole debacle. 

So they told people they’d gotten married at the courthouse. And it did calm things down.

Obviously, it wasn’t a romance in anything other than name. Whatever was happening with them, whatever had happened, wasn’t something they were addressing yet. It was just symbolic.

Crowley had driven Mundson to ruin—or hadn’t blocked the path he’d been on, anyway. She’d done her job, could put it in the report. Despite how unpleasant of a sort he’d been, she found herself having to dismiss feelings of guilt more often than she wanted.

So, she and Aziraphale hadn’t discussed the kiss, or the conversation that had preceded it, and neither of them had been particularly keen on remaining in the same room without a Conversation Topic to seize on—or something to watch, or something to drink. They’d been keeping busy. 

They’d probably revisit things eventually. She… wasn’t actually that concerned. They knew they liked each other. They were being open about it.

The sort of… domesticity that the shape their Arrangement had taken on here was… something. It was _something_ to see Aziraphale reading downstairs in the mornings when she’d woken up and gone looking. It was _something_ to watch him eat breakfast and talk about what they might do later. 

And they spent more nights drinking or having dinner or going to shows than they didn’t. They just... avoided the quiet moments.

The police investigation took much longer than expected. Three months passed.

And honestly? It had been great.

One afternoon, Crowley was hanging upside down from the foyer’s chandelier. Her attention was on the long, thick curtains covering the huge windows. She gripped her dagger more tightly. 

She had gotten bored—been thinking of Douglas Fairbanks and that pirate show they’d seen and she’d wondered… and Aziraphale was gone for the morning. Were they doing anything later? Anyway, was it possible—the curtain thing? _Obviously_ with Fairbanks it had been a stunt. But, maybe…

So, after an hour of math and planning, she’d maneuvered upwards, ready to try.

Aziraphale walked in through the front door. He stopped abruptly—slowly tilted his head back. He looked up at her with his brows raised.

“Is this because of the Gilbert and Sullivan argument?”

“ _Yes,_ it’s because of the Gilbert and Sullivan argument.”

“A human can’t safely attempt—”

“The show needs more action.”

But whatever mood Aziraphale was in, it didn’t seem to accommodate continuing their discussion. And she couldn’t very well attempt sliding down the curtain with a dagger _now_ —she was too likely to accidentally use her powers while distracted. And Aziraphale would be distracting. 

She unhooked her knees and let herself float to the floor. “What’s up?”

“Obregon. Again.”

They made their way over to the house’s bar. 

“He was waiting for me in Mundson’s office. They’ve ruled out our involvement, of course. They’re going after the organization Mundson was working with. You realize we don’t even know who it was?”

“The stuff in his safe didn’t say anything?”

“Well, I—forgot about the safe.”

Crowley laughed, surprised. “You what?”

Aziraphale inclined his head, pursed his lips. “It’s been a hectic few months.”

“Sure, angel.” They’d spent the vast majority of it on idle pursuits, which were admittedly very consuming.

“So I remembered the safe, gave him the combination. That made him suspicious. But I explained that so much had been happening, and that it had slipped my mind.”

Aziraphale was a hard person to distrust. Obregon likely stood little chance against so much earnestness aimed directly at him.

“But that’s… all. They’re going to close the whole business, finally. So, I think we’re… nearly done here.” He had a far-away look on his face.

It had to end sometime. “Okay. Hey, that’ll be nice. To get back.”

Aziraphale smiled, almost wistfully. “Yes. I do miss my shop terribly.”

“What’s left to do?”

“Gather our things. Say goodbye?”

Crowley didn’t bring anything to Argentina she cared to bring back. The Bentley was in London. She’d see it again soon, and that excited her.

Some of Aziraphale’s things were still at the casino. They decided to walk over together.

Pio was at the bar. Crowley went over, planning to explain that they were leaving. But Aziraphale said, “Crowley, Mundson’s office.”

In the window above, blinds were drifting closed.

* * *

Mundson walked out to the top of the stairs. He was dressed for traveling, a fine coat over his suit. He had his cane. He’d survived. Aziraphale felt some small bit of relief that was quickly overshadowed by concern as Mundson began to walk down the stairs.

“I didn’t intend to come back so soon. But, I want my wife.”

“Oh gosh, Aziraphale.” Crowley sounded excited. She watched a lot of human films. Aziraphale had seen some of them with her. This was rapidly escalating to that level of absurdity.

“You thought I died that night, didn’t you?”

“I mean, reasonable conclusion,” Crowley said.

“I’d murdered a man and thought it simpler to disappear for a while. That’s all. I came to the house that night. To get Antonia, to take her with me. But I found her occupied. With you, Aeneas.”

Aziraphale’s face felt very hot. He didn’t have an opportunity to reply before Mundson continued, coming down the rest of the way and approaching them.

“I had neither the time nor the inclination for an emotional scene at the moment. By the time the harbor police reached the plane wreckage, I was gone, of course, in the craft I had waiting. You didn’t see me parachute out, did you?”

He hadn't. Mundson was almost directly in front of them, maybe a few meters away.

“You weren’t seeing very clearly that night anyway, were you, Aeneas? Emotion is so apt to cloud the brain, isn’t it? I’d intended to kill you with this, Aeneas.” Mundson raised his cane, let the blade slide out. “I thought it amusing to have one of my good friends kill the other. But now, it won’t do. Because I have to kill Antonia, too.”

Crowley laughed, not at all distressed by any of this. “Is that so?”

Mundson set the cane down on a table, and drew a gun from inside his coat. He took a step forward. This was going very poorly.

Aziraphale turned to Crowley, finally tearing his eyes from Mundson. Her mouth was open and she was clearly more amused than anything.

“Do something,” he hissed.

Crowley started. “Oh—right. Sorry.” She raised her hand up.

Mundson clicked back the safety of the pistol. “I told you I’d be looking—” He stopped abruptly—staggered, and collapsed. There was a rapidly spreading bloodstain on the front of his shirt. His eyes shut. They didn’t re-open.

Pio was standing behind where Mundson had fallen. He was holding the cane sword, looking stricken. Aziraphale hurried forward. Gently, he took the weapon. He held it out to Crowley. “Do something with this.”

She took it.

Aziraphale put his hands on Pio’s shoulders, kept his touch fim, but gentle. “Hey. It’s alright. You’re going to be alright. It’s over.”

Pio’s eyes were unfocused, his gaze far-off. “He was going to—I had to,” he said, voice faint.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said. He rubbed Pio’s upper arms, trying to ground the man—comfort him. “You saved our lives.”

“Detective Obregon,” Crowley said. 

Aziraphale turned.

Obregon was standing there, looking shocked. Behind him, the doors leading outside were ajar. After a beat, he seemed to regain his focus. He hurried over to Mundson and crouched down, to take his pulse. 

In confirmation, he lowered Mundson’s arm and stood. He took in the sight of Crowley, holding the weapon, and then turned to Aziraphale. 

Calmly, cheerfully, he said, “You know, I’m a great cop, Mr. Farrell. I’m certainly a pushover for a love story. I know the combination of the safe and I don’t know where the safe is.”

Aziraphale didn’t understand. “What?”

“The safe. Where is it?”

Oh. “It—it’s in his room, back at his house. On the wall, back of the desk.”

“Thanks.” Obregon looked at Crowley. “Say, haven’t I seen the cane somewhere before?”

Crowley glanced down at it, back up to Obregon. “You really shouldn’t leave things like that laying around where I can get my hands on them.”

“Oh for—she’s lying!” said Pio, snapping to attention. He pushed past Aziraphale. “Detective, I did—”

“Oh _shut up_ , Pio—”

“You two can quit being noble anytime you like, you know,” Obregon said, raising his voice over their protests. “Because a man can only die once. And Mundson committed suicide three months ago. Besides, didn’t you ever hear of a thing called justifiable homicide?”

He made to walk away, then paused. “Oh—we’ll be by to wrap this up shortly. You all can go. Maybe you two lovebirds should take a vacation, given that I don’t think you’ll be able to stay at home for some time. Don’t leave the country.”

Pio walked up to them, after Obregon left. “I… think I quit,” he said, finally.

“I can’t blame you,” Aziraphale said. “Take care. Be well, Pio.”

“Hey, Pio.” Crowley handed him something. “Here’s your severance package. I’ll mail you the receipts and the insurance.”

* * *

Pio looked at the brooch, a much better sort of shocked than before. “Thank you, Antonia.”

“Y’know, for your trouble,” she said. “Really, take care of yourself. Take some time.”

The stones would find themselves undergoing a transformation—their value increasing to far, far beyond the 50,000 pesos Alan had spent. Pio would have a very comfortable life.

She turned back to Aziraphale. “Let’s go home, angel.”

“I’m sure there are some open seats on a flight back to London tonight.”

They walked away from the casino, away from the road that would have taken them to Mundson’s home. Instead, they walked East, towards the water.

Aziraphale reached down, took her hand. Crowley smiled. She flexed her hand as they twined their fingers. She felt happy, comfortable. Maybe it was temporary, but wasn’t everything?

“Is Buenos Aires our Paris?” she asked.

“You’re referencing a film.”

“Well spotted.”

“I can tell because of how self-satisfied you get, when you do it.”

They came to a railing, in front of the Río de la Plata. Crowley let go of Aziraphale’s hand, to face him as she leaned against the steel. He mirrored her, glancing out at the water for a moment but then giving her his full attention.

She said, “Parts of this were…”

“Important.”

 _Not nice._ Crowley nodded.

“To me,” Aziraphale finished. He was looking at her like he—well...

“So, what do you want?” Crowley asked. “Back to London, meeting up in galleries and concerts every now and then and comparing notes?”

His expression was impossibly soft. “I like going to galleries and concerts with you.”

They were quiet, then. Crowley turned back to face the water, and Aziraphale followed her movements again. She shifted over a bit so that their shoulders touched.

After a minute or so, Aziraphale said. “We both know how we feel. It’s… good.”

 _Ugh._ She cringed. “You got so far without saying it.”

“It is. Sorry. I love you.”—said so easily, because it was already very obvious. But, it was the first time he’d said it in those words.

Crowley sunk down onto her arms a bit more and let her head rest on Aziraphale’s shoulder. She liked this. 

“So…” she said, finally.

“What do you want?” He emphasized the _‘you’_.

She thought about it. “I like you being around. A lot. I like the honesty. _Don’t,_ ” she preempted. If Aziraphale made a comment on virtues right now—

He didn’t. He said, “We can do that.” And he was quiet for a time. 

The sky was clear, and the water was a deep, lovely blue.

“I don’t think Buenos Aires is our Paris,” Aziraphale said. “I think the world is.”

She turned to look at him. He was smiling. They both were.

They kissed beneath a star Crowley had watched form in the vault of heaven. 

The sun stretched their shadows out behind them, as they walked hand in hand down the paved street. 

Home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading <3 I'm @various-things on tumblr. Comments make my day.


End file.
